


slide (i might, i might)

by wentz



Series: slideverse [2]
Category: Monsta X (Band), NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Office, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Seo Youngho | Johnny, M/M, Porn With Plot, Strength Kink, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 15:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wentz/pseuds/wentz
Summary: Johnny peels his eyes open and immediately feels like a piece of shit.Fuck, he thinks.I slept with my boss last night.





	slide (i might, i might)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florulentae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florulentae/gifts).

> i literally just poured every horny thought i've ever had about shownu into johnny .... slutty bottom johnny nation RISE
> 
> special thanks to mina, president of johnny/shownu nation, for her big big brain and also for being such a fucking good friend and always putting up with me showing her my stuff. I LOVE YOUUUUUU
> 
> EDIT: this is a standalone! you don’t need to read previous works in this series to enjoy/understand this one~

Johnny peels his eyes open and immediately feels like a piece of shit. His mouth tastes awful—that terrible morning-after taste where the underside of his tongue still kinda tastes like dick if he thinks about it too hard. Swallowing might be fun and sexy in the moment but he really has to stop doing it when he’s not ending the evening within arm’s reach of his toothbrush. He smacks his lips, rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an attempt to get rid of the tacky feeling stuck there, and stretches. At least the mattress could be worse. Johnny’s neck hasn’t felt this good after a night’s sleep in months, especially considering he barely _got _a night’s sleep. Perks of being the CFO: Tempur-fucking-pedic in every room.

_Fuck_, he thinks. _I slept with my boss last night._ The thought bounces around in the empty wasteland of his skull for a few seconds before it clicks. “Fuck,” he mutters out loud, jackknifing upwards. “Oh, fuck,” he repeats, wincing when his lower back twinges in response to the sudden movement. A helpful flashback to Johnny allowing Mr Son to fold him in half like a goddamn Russian ballerina supplies the explanation for that one. Next time Johnny wants to be manhandled he needs to remember to do some lumbar stretches beforehand.

_Problem at hand, John. Focus up. _Right. Time to take the walk of shame out of his CFO’s penthouse. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, cursing Johnny of last night for his lapse of judgment. ‘Champagne John,’ as he refers to him, is not known for his incredible powers of discernment. Champagne John is mostly known for 1.) reciting all of the states and their capital cities in reverse alphabetical order to the tune of ‘Born in the USA’ and 2.) figuring out exactly which dick in a 500 yard radius to ride in order to ensure his next twenty-four hours will be as embarrassing as possible.

(Also 3.) pinpointing exactly where someone’s nipples are underneath their shirt but he stopped whipping out _that _party trick when he was a sophomore and accidentally exposed Taeil’s secret third nipple to the entire guest list of Sehun’s homecoming house party.)

Okay. Johnny is old hat at walks of shame. He pulls up his mental list titled _So You Boned Your [Ex/Best Friend/Ex Best Friend/Best Friend’s Ex/Worst Enemy/Etc]: What Now, You Big Horny Idiot? (_Johnny recently added the ‘etcetera’ to the end of the title after an unfortunate run-in with his mother’s pastor’s son; the roll call was beginning to get too long and he figured he needed a catch-all for any future fuck-ups and _boy was he fucking right_. Try as he might, he was having a little trouble thinking of a bigger _whoopsie! _than fucking the CFO of the company he’s with for his senior internship. Internship! He’s not even a proper employee and he already _extremely_ _literally _fucked up with the boss.)

_So You Boned Your [Ex/Best Friend/Ex Best Friend/Best Friend’s Ex/Worst Enemy/Etc.]: What Now, You Big Horny Idiot?_

_Step One: Where the hell are you, how did you get there, and how are you gonna get the _fuck _out?_

The first part of that is easy. It’d be hard to mistake the interior of Mr Son’s bourgie apartmentwith the shitty old three-bedroom Johnny shares with four other dudes and the revolving lazy susan of their various romantic dalliances (more emphasis on _dalliances _than _romantic_). The latter two thirds of the question pose a problem.

He roots around in the bedsheets (which have to be, like, ten million thread count, seriously, it’s like wallowing around swaddled in perfectly cooled butter) but can’t find his phone to check his Uber history—or, better yet, if Waze dropped a pin in the last place he parked—let alone map his location to see how far he is from Hyde Park. Johnny’s brain conjures a vague memory of the elevator doors opening straight onto the luxury apartment. _Yeah_, he thinks wryly. _Probably nowhere within walking distance._

Johnny sighs, wiggling his ass against Mr Son’s fancy sheets. Okay. Cool. He Ubered to the banquet last night, so—assuming he didn’t lose his wallet somewhere between the venue and Mr Son’s apartment—he can just take a long, shameful ride back to Hyde Park on the L. He sighs again, closing his eyes against the hangover headache beginning to throb behind his temples. It sure does _feel_ like an L.

It could be worse. Could be like the time he fucked Seokmin Lee; when Jaehyun found out, he started crying and refused to speak to Johnny for weeks. It still remains the only occasion on which Johnny has ever seen Jaehyun cry. Even when Jaehyun broke his foot from jumping out the second floor last year (the result of a game of What Are The Odds gone horribly out of control) he just kind of laughed it off and did that smile that makes him look like a loaf of bread while Johnny tried to find someone sober enough to take them to the ER.

Surprisingly, thinking about the time he almost ruined his friendship with Jaehyun doesn’t make Johnny feel any better about having sex with his boss.

_Step Two: Are you still naked? Fix that._

When Johnny rolls over to the side of the bed he thinks he remembers getting <strike>thrown</strike> in on, he has to roll over like _three times._ (Seriously, he’s not trying to get hung up on this bed or anything but he has to pause for a moment to fully appreciate what a fucking huge mattress he’s on. Like, Mr Son is a big dude but what single man needs this much real estate just for sleeping? Although, Johnny has to admit it was kind of nice to be able to move around and sprawl out while they fucked without having to worry about, like, knocking a lamp over or falling off or something. One of his ex girlfriends had a full-size bed and some part of Johnny’s body perpetually hung off the edge of it no matter what position they were in, sexual or otherwise.) 

He peers over the side of the mattress. There isn’t a lot to be seen, clothes-wise. Mr Son divested him of most of his suit before the elevator door even closed behind them. Johnny spies his pants in a puddle near the bedroom door and mentally fist pumps. Nice. He really didn’t want to lose those pants. Sacrificing them to the hookup gods gets kind of expensive after awhile. Plus, the suit he wore last night was a gift from his mom to congratulate him on his internship and even though all navy blue dress pants ever made in the history of the human race ever all look exactly the same, his mother would take one glance at his closet and somehow _know _that he’d lost that specific pair of dress pants and then he’d be in for an ass-reaming that not even Mr Son could compete with.

He says a quick prayer to the hookup gods and they must be appeased because his jelly legs don’t completely buckle when he rolls out of the tall bed. Nice. Only two steps into the list and he’s already got two wins. Two-for-three. Not too shabby. 

When he scoops up his pants, he secures win number three: his boxer briefs are still inside. Like a matryoshka doll but with pants. Extra nice! He almost never completes a successful walk of shame with underwear intact and these are his Nice Underwear™, the ones that make his ass look extra good and don’t leave any lines under his pants, even the really tight leather ones that Ten says make his legs look like the interior of a Bentley. (“Expensive,” he elaborated once after three French 75s and two rounds of tequila shots. “And you wanna ride it all night long.”)

A quick check in each pocket also confirms the locations of his wallet and phone. His phone’s dead, but when he scans his wallet for his important cards—license, student ID, Ventra, debit, Starbucks Gold—everything is in its place, so Johnny figures he probably won’t be murdered, chopped up into tiny pieces, and stored in the false ceiling. He glances upwards. Nope. No ceiling tiles. Mr Son can’t hide Johnny’s body in the basement, either, because he lives in a penthouse. The whole fucking _building _is Mr Son’s basement, technically.

He’s getting distracted. _Step Two, _he reminds himself.

Socks are always kind of a toss-up. Johnny figures if he doesn’t find them on his way out the door, he’ll consider them fair tithe to the hookup gods in exchange for his pants and undies. Basic decency does, however, require him to wear a shirt. There’s only one pile of crumpled up white fabric on the floor and when Johnny picks it up two signs clearly indicate that it does not belong to him: it’s tailored—which Johnny has never even dreamt of achieving for his own personal wardrobe except in a faraway where-will-I-be-in-twenty-years kind of way—and furthermore, it’s tailored for a man with significantly more… Beef.

Johnny puts it on anyways. Every hookup has a trophy. Certainly a conquest as monumental as Mr Son, CFO of MX Enterprises, justifies a trophy, too. 

The shirt swallows him, and it’s wrinkled at the hem and around the sleeves in a way that screams _Walk! Of! Shame! _in the raucous chorus of a game show’s live studio audience, but if Johnny leaves this room even partially undressed it could telegraph the message that he’s interested in a round two and… 

Well, frankly, Johnny _is _interested in a round two. But he’s also interested in graduating on time with a job waiting for him on the other side of the commencement stage, arguably more so than he is interested in finding out whether or not Mr Son meant it when he said he could eat Johnny’s ass out for hours.

Johnny finishes buttoning up the shirt and does _not _feel a swoosh in his belly when he notices how loosely it fits around his chest and biceps.

_Step Three: Basic hygiene check, i.e., will well-meaning old white ladies reach for the spare change in their purses if you loiter on a street corner a little too long?_

Johnny sticks his nose into the armpit of the shirt and takes a deep whiff. It smells okay, considering the sweat both of them worked up last night. It mostly just smells like stale cologne with an undertone of sex and BO that emanates from Johnny’s underarm. Not _great_, but okay. No one will give him funny looks as long as he keeps his distance on public transpo and doesn’t raise his arm to grab the overhead bar. 

Now he just needs a mirror. He scrubs his hand through his hair. One time he made the mistake of leaving without checking his reflection and he ran into his microeconomics professor and held an entire conversation with her with crazy sex hair. Like, _crazy _sex hair, like, missed-a-spot-while-cleaning-up-and-it-dried-there sex hair. Johnny didn’t have a clue until he got back to his apartment and caught sight of himself in the door of the microwave. He could barely meet Dr Im’s eyes in her next class.

Mr Son didn’t come on his face last night—he came, like, everywhere on Johnny _except _his face, which is kind of a damn shame—but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

In the corner of the room, a door stands slightly ajar. _Nice_, Johnny thinks. _Ensuite_. It’s always awkward to sneak around looking for a bathroom and then if they catch you and they want to _talk_— no, Johnny highly prefers ensuites. The less he has to bumble around a strange apartment, the better. The light is off inside so he doesn’t do the careful peek-and-nudge that he would if he needed to check for lurking ONSes (One Night Stands). 

The door swings outward instead of inward, which Johnny thinks is kinda weird until it opens to reveal the El Dorado of closets.

Seriously, Johnny doesn’t even have to hit the lights because they turn on _automatically_, revealing row after row of perfectly-pressed suits organized by color, season, and occasion, designer shoes lined up in rows of gorgeous brown, blue, and black leather, and even a tall vanity in the back with glass drawers through which Johnny can just get a glimpse of the silver and gold glint of watches. 

He clutches his chest like an old Southern belle about to have a spell. This must be how Nicholas Cage felt when he found the National Treasure. A tear comes to one eye. Johnny wipes it away with his finger and closes the door again, but not before whispering, “I’m sorry… It’s not you, it’s me. We can’t be together. We’re from two different worlds,” to the beautiful, forbidden closet. Figures that out of the two viable doors in the room he would choose the one that led to his own personal island of the lotus-eaters.

His second try fares much better, leading him into an ensuite bathroom no less swanky than the walk-in closet. God. Johnny loves marble. 

He eyeballs the touchpad in the shower and wishes he had gotten a chance to explore those settings. Shower sex is mostly kinda bad in Johnny’s experience, but then again Johnny’s never had sex in a walk-in shower like this one, with one of those big, square, rainforest-shower type showerheads set into the ceiling and jets in the wall that probably make a totally epic cross-stream. It’s an unnecessarily huge, expensive shower; perfect for massaging Mr Son’s unnecessarily huge, expensive muscles after a long day working in his unnecessarily huge, expensive office.

Johnny drags his eyes away from the plumbing to face his reflection in the equally giant mirror. Oof. He winces. He looks rough. 

He runs the tap over his fingers and does his best to scrub the fuzzy cum-taste off his tongue before attempting to flatten down his hair. It sticks up in tufts on each side of his head where Mr Son used it as a handhold to drag Johnny’s mouth up and down his dick. 

Speaking of which, his lips are red and chapped, and there’s a raw spot on his bottom lip where Mr Son went to town with his teeth. Ouch. Johnny hooks a finger in the collar of the shirt and pulls it to the side to check one side of his neck, then the other, and his collarbones; no hickeys. At least, not visible ones. He recalls some enthusiastic biting and sucking on the insides of his thighs and thinks he’s probably black and blue down there. The thought sends a little shiver down Johnny’s spine. That’ll be nice to jerk off to later; pressing his fingers into the old bruises and thinking about Mr Son’s nice, thick—

_[NEW!] Step Three-point-Two-Five: Don’t get horny thinking about last night’s ONS while you’re still on their turf. This is a grave tactical error._

_Step Three-Point-Five: Pee. Take a moment to judge their toilet paper brand. Steal a roll if it’s two-ply or greater._

Mr Son’s toilet paper is, surprisingly, just one-ply. Maybe his plumbing is weak. It seems unlikely for an apartment this nice. Is Mr Son… cheap? Or does he have an ass of stone in more ways than one?

_Step Four: Phone, wallet, glasses, keys. Make absolutely certain that you pick up your _own _PWGKs and _not _your ONS’s. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, cancelled the debit card. _

Johnny’s got the P and the W. The Gs wait for him on the edge of the bedside table. Johnny puts them on and remembers why he needs them to see. 

The Ks, however, elude him; Johnny scours the bedside tables, the dresser, and the floor, all in vain. Surely he tossed them somewhere when they came in, unless—god forbid—he left them in the Uber or at the party venue. He even lifts up the edge of the bedskirt to see if they slid underneath. All he finds are a pair of ratty old tennis shoes and a trash bag with a poorly rolled mattress pad stuffed halfway inside.

Johnny straightens, casting a trepidatious eye towards the door to the hallway. There’s no avoiding it; the keys must be Out There. 

_Step Five: Formulate the quickest and most discreet exit strategy possible. Remember, the window is _always _an option._

He peers out of the floor-to-ceiling window at one corner of the bedroom down at the street fifty seven floors below. Step Five may require amendment if Johnny continues to score hookups within Mr Son’s wage bracket. 

Johnny executes a peek-and-nudge on the hallway door, listening for signs of life. Nothing. Maybe Mr Son is a morning runner. Emboldened, he pokes his head through the crack in the door to assess his exit route.

Excellent. It’s almost a straight shot from the bedroom door to the elevator without any open floor plan to potentially expose Johnny’s mad dash for freedom. Even better, he thinks the soft lump on the floor of the foyer near his discarded dress shoes might be his suit jacket; a very likely candidate for the whereabouts of his missing keys. 

He carefully shuts the door, does a quick fist pump in celebration, and touches one fist to his chest before pointing heavenwards. Johnny is truly blessed and highly favored. 

_Step Six: Claim your hookup trophy. You deserve it. Like Achilles claiming Briseis for his heroics in the Trojan War. Except completely not like that at all because of, you know, sexual slavery and treating women like objects and stuff. Maybe more like cashing in your tickets at Celebration Station._

He casts a wistful glance towards the closet door and spares a moment to regret choosing the first shirt he picked up off the floor. Alas, Babylon. Sometimes the trophy picks the man instead of the other way around. Desperate times, desperate measures, all that.

_Step Seven: Make a break for it. There’s never gonna be a better moment, so don’t wait for it. Channel your inner Kenobi and ghost before things get messy. _

Johnny tiptoes out into the hallway, making sure the bedroom door closes silently behind him, and hotfoots it over to his jacket. He holds the collar between his teeth while he uses one hand to jam his feet into his shoes and the other to raid the pockets of the jacket for his keys. The moment he gets his shoes on, he slaps the button for the lift, certain his keys must be hiding deep in the lining of one of the inner pockets. He’s so, _so_ close to escaping. He just needs his keys.

Where are his _fucking_ keys?!

“Hey.”

Johnny freezes halfway through turning his breast pocket inside out. Mr Son stands (more like _leans_ in that super cool way seductive businessmen always lean on door frames in movies. It’s appropriate, Johnny supposes, since Mr Son kinda _is _a seductive businessman) in one of the open doorways. 

Mr Son is Very Sleep-Rumpled (in, like, the hottest way possible) and Very Shirtless and Very Intimidating, and he’s wearing these dorky plastic-framed glasses that make his eys look tiny and round and totally fucking adorable, kind of like a sleepy black bear. His posture suggests he’s been watching Johnny fumble with his clothing for awhile now. Johnny resigns himself to the very real, very mortifying possibility that he’s been watching the entire time.

He straightens, clearing his throat and taking his coat out of his teeth. The elevator dings softly and opens, waiting patiently for Johnny to enter. Fucking tease.

“I was just, um—” Johnny gestures awkwardly with the jacket in his hands. “Looking for my keys.”

Mr Son’s eyes trail slowly down to the suit jacket in question, taking in (what feels to Johnny like) every inch of his dishevelled appearance along the way. Johnny spares a frantic thought for his pilfered shirt and hopes it will go unnoticed. 

His boss nods. “Behind you.”

Awesome. Very awesome and cool.

He turns with as much dignity as possible and takes the keys from the little dish on the hall table behind him. After double-checking that they’re truly his (shitty glitter keyring made for him by Kun’s nephew that he’ll keep until his dying day, professionalism be damned), he gestures with them and forces a smile for his boss. “Thanks,” he says. His misplaced preservation instinct makes the word come out on half a laugh. “I’ll just—”

The moment Johnny turns to make a mad dash for freedom, the elevator doors slide shut and the telltale rumble of the pulley system marks its descent. Johnny feels every foot of the separation in his bones. It takes a major feat of willpower to hold himself back from repeatedly jabbing his thumb into the call button. _Please_, he wails internally. _Don’t leave me here with—_

“It might take a few minutes for it to come back,” muses Mr Son. “You want an omelet?”

An omelet? Johnny narrows his eyes. He can’t tell if this guy is joking or not.

“Um,” he replies after a noticeable pause. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Mr Son seems to operate on a thirty second minimum lag. Eventually, his gaze makes it back up to Johnny’s face, whereupon he shrugs. “It’s okay.” He turns, hands holstered in the pockets of his joggers, and retreats into the door from whence he came. A beat passes, and then his voice reaches Johnny from down the hall: “There’s coffee, too, if you want it.”

Coffee. Shit. Mr Son probably has one of those sexy home espresso machines with the gorgeous little cups and the chrome steam wand and coffee beans imported from Italy. Johnny’s got a half chub just thinking about it. Before he consciously makes the decision to follow, he’s already toed off his shoes and floated to the door through which Mr Son had disappeared.

The kitchen is, of course, breathtakingly beautiful, with more floor-to-ceiling windows, marble, and sleek, modern decor. Johnny wishes his phone wasn’t dead so he could surreptitiously snap a couple of photos to send to Taeyong (he can already imagine the response: _if u dont keep fucking this guy i will_, and, whoa, Taeyong and Mr Son… _that’s_ a thought. If Mr Son can manhandle _Johnny _the way he did last night, there’s no fucking _telling _what he could do to Twinkyong). A bunch of kitchen appliances line the shelves. Johnny has no idea what any of them do, but they’re shiny and he’s easily impressed so he gets excited when he sees them despite (or perhaps because of) his ignorance. When he moves into the center of the kitchen and catches sight of the Smart Fridge, he has to curl his fingers inside of his pockets to quell the desire to play with it.

The kitchen is beautiful, just like the rest of the apartment. But once Johnny catches sight of Mr Son at the stove he can’t pay attention to much else. 

Johnny solidly D’ced anatomy (D’s get degrees, after all, and the only anatomy Johnny really needs to know for his future in marketing is that of the tongue in cheek) but he thinks if he’d had a specimen like Mr Son to study he would’ve been much more engaged in the learning process. He leans against the island in the center of the kitchen and watches the morning light highlight the definition in each of the finely-honed muscles of the CFO’s back. Something stirs in the pit of Johnny’s stomach when he looks a little closer and sees thin, red scratches trailing parallel lines on either side of Mr Son’s spine, beginning over his shoulder blades and ending somewhere below the waistband of his sweats. His ears flush. He didn’t remember being so… violent in his appreciation of Mr Son’s cock.

Quiet lapses between them. Johnny can’t move, rooted to the spot by the visual traces of his nails on Mr Son’s skin. Mr Son, for his part, seems wholly absorbed with preparing their eggs.

A very dangerous voice (one that Johnny associates with changing his major, and driving thirty miles over the speed limit at night on unfamiliar roads, and falling in love with Sehun, and every time he’s ever done any kind of hard drug) starts to whisper in Johnny’s mind. _There’s no hurry to go, is there? What’s the harm in staying for one omelet?_

_Step Eight: Absolutely do not under any circumstances engage last night’s ONS in further intercourse. **DO NOT MAKE THE SAME BAD DECISION TWICE.** _

Johnny sets his keys down on the island.

_It’s just one omelet, _he tells himself. The dangerous voice giggles with glee.

Mr Son glances over his shoulder and jerks his chin in the direction of the coffee maker (which is, as Johnny predicted, one of those hitech espresso makers). “Beans are in the cabinet overhead,” he mumbles. 

“Thank you,” Johnny hums, sparing the machine a second glance. It looks brand new. Johnny wonders if Mr Son even knows how to use the thing. _Soon, my love, _he promises her. He needs to earn his turn with a sophisticated espresso machine like her.

Johnny steps closer to Mr Son, hovering just behind his elbow, and skates his fingertips down his boss’s back, following the paths of the scratches he left behind last night. “Do these hurt?” he asks, voice carefully innocent.

The CFO doesn’t lift his attention from the frying pan but Johnny doesn’t miss the way his muscles twitch and flex under his touch. “No,” he says. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

Mr Son lifts his head a fraction, eyes cutting to the side to look at Johnny. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the way the corner of his mouth moves might be a smirk. “Are you sore?”

“Oh.” His cheeks flush with heat. “Um… a little. Not too bad.” He giggles a little bit and has to push away a mental image of Doyoung rolling his eyes at his flirting attempts. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long time. It was fun.”

His boss doesn’t respond for a moment, occupied with flipping one of the omelets. “It was fun,” he repeats at length. 

Johnny takes a deep breath, holds it, and dares to flatten his hand against Mr Son’s back. He traces down his spinal column and around his waist to rest over his stomach, just above the drawstring of his sweats, and moves closer to bring his other hand up to join it. He hooks his chin over the shorter man’s shoulder and relaxes so their bodies are loosely pressed together, chest-to-back. Mr Son’s skin is warm, even through the material of Johnny’s shirt. He watches his boss cook for a few moments before allowing his lips to brush against Mr Son’s ear as he murmurs, “Those omelets look great.” 

Mr Son turns his head to look at Johnny from the corner of his eye and, no, yeah, that’s _definitely _a smirk. “You must be hungry.”

“Mm,” Johnny agrees with a sigh. He starts to trace aimless loops around Mr Son’s belly button, looping low enough on every other downward stroke to skim just below the waistband of his joggers—low enough to make Johnny suspect that Mr Son opted out of underwear for the morning. “I burned a lot of calories last night.”

His hold on the CFO’s waist breaks when the older man moves to slide the second omelet from the pan onto a plate with a laugh. “I can’t deny that.” He snags some forks from a drawer and hands one plate to Johnny. “You sure you don’t want any coffee?” he asks as he leads the way over to the breakfast table, which stands in an alcove of floor-to-ceiling windows drowning in a gorgeous puddle of morning sunlight with a view of the cityscape. God. Every inch of Mr Son’s apartment is exploiting Johnny’s massive boner for luxury.

“No.” He hesitates before choosing his seat, uncertain whether the cityscape or the interior design will distract him more. “I may have some in a minute.”

Mr Son devours his omelet like a man possessed, thankfully distracting him from the technique Johnny uses to push his own eggs in circles around his plate (eggs are nasty, chickens are disgusting creatures), and chases it with a few pulls off a cup of coffee that Johnny suspects came from the deluxe Keurig tucked in the corner rather than the espresso machine. 

They eat in silence. Johnny keeps waiting for it to be awkward. It isn’t. It’s… nice. Peaceful.

Johnny doesn’t really _thrive_ in peacefulness. He likes action, and noise, and excitement. Mr Son is steady, and quiet, and calm.

Johnny wants to make a mess of him.

His plan to do so goes something like this: 

_Step One: _He’s going to have depraved morning-after sex with his boss. 

_Step Two: _He’s going to celebrate by curling up in one of the gorgeous outdoor club chairs on the balcony wearing nothing but Mr Son’s tailored dress shirt like an oversized Audrey Hepburn and sipping an Italian-style cappuccino while enjoying the view of the river. End of plan.

(Okay, so it’s not as well thought-out as some of his other plans but consider this: he’s making it on the fly without any caffeine in his system. In fact, at the moment he’s mostly running on willpower and leftover oxytocin. He’ll flesh out the details as he goes.) 

When his boss takes their plates over to the sink, Johnny gets up from his seat to lean against the table and watch Mr Son’s back muscles move as he runs the tap over their dishes. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud and a holy ray of light streams through the huge windows to touch Mr Son’s bare skin. It turns golden in the warm light, like literally fucking _glowing golden_, and Johnny sighs. It’s not fair. It’s literally not fair.

“What are your plans for today?” Johnny asks, using the tip of his finger to trace the pattern of the table’s wood grain. He’s being obvious, but like… sometimes with dudes you have to be obvious.

Mr Son faces him, drying his hands on a dish towel. A funny little smile plays around his lips. He _definitely _knows what Johnny is up to. Okay. Cool. A game’s always more fun with two players, anyways. 

“If you’re asking if I’m going into the office, the answer is no,” he replies.

Johnny shrugs. “It was just a general question. I wasn’t sure if you had plans, or…” He shrugs again. He isn’t very good at this.

Fortunately, Mr Son either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He tips his head to look at Johnny over the tops of his glasses. Johnny thinks, _Hot_, before his brain can kill his boner with a memory of his father doing the same thing but with Johnny’s middle school report card in his hand.

He hangs the hand towel on the handle of the oven and rejoins Johnny at the table. “You look pretty in this light,” he says, leaning forward to place his hands on the table bracketing Johnny’s hips. His breath smells like grilled peppers. One hand lifts, brushes the hair out of Johnny’s eyes (it’s, like, the shortest he’s had it since he buzzed it into an undercut his sophomore year, but it’s getting unkempt because money’s been too tight for a trip to the salon he likes. Johnny would rather die than go to SportClips like Mark and let a beauty school flunkie named Mandi-with-an-i come anywhere near his head), and pinches the hem of his shirt between two fingers. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the fabric a few times, then his eyes cut back up to Johnny’s face. “I like seeing you surrounded by all my things.”

A shaky exhale wheezes out of Johnny’s lungs. He realises it was a mistake to think he was (or could ever be) in control of the situation. He isn’t sure he minds too terribly much.

“I like it, too,” he croaks. His ears heat up at how wrecked his voice sounds after just a few seconds of teasing. “Makes me feel expensive. And small.” He’s talking about the shirt, of course. Just the shirt. He grins to diffuse some of the tension. “Like Audrey Hepburn.”

The remark succeeds in making Mr Son’s eyes crinkle up in laughter. Just the sight is enough to make Johnny’s heart skip a beat. “Does that make me Cary Grant?”

Johnny can’t take his eyes off the CFO’s lips. “More like Humphrey Bogart.”

Mr Son groans. “Wasn’t his wife, like, twenty years younger than him?”

“Twenty-five,” Johnny murmurs, and then he tips his head down to stop _that _train of thought by catching Mr Son’s mouth in a kiss.

_God_. Ten, twenty, thirty years, whatever—Mr Son is a fucking _great _kisser. Not too much tongue or teeth but not too chaste, either, and he switches things up just enough to keep Johnny’s brain from lapsing into autopilot. Even when their glasses clack together, Mr Son doesn’t miss a beat, just laughs a little and pushes his own to rest out of the way on top of his head before going back in as smoothly as before. A pleasant buzz washes over Johnny’s entire body when the older man moves to his neck, licking over Johnny’s pulse (which is rabbiting so hard he’s worried it might knock one of Mr Son’s teeth loose) before sucking a messy kiss into his skin.

He moves into Johnny’s space, forcing him back, back, until he gets the hint and hops up on the edge of the table, spreading his legs for his boss to step into the space between them. One of Mr Son’s hands—a big, confident hand with a writers’ callus from signing multi-million dollar contracts all day—skims underneath Johnny’s shirt to touch his ribs, pet over his stomach with his thumb, tease one of his nipples in circles. Drops of hot, hot heat slide down all of Johnny’s nerves, fizzing at the endings like live wires. 

_Spreading his legs for his boss_—fuck.

Between kisses, Johnny gasps, “I’m your intern. This is, like, super unethical.”

“Yes,” Mr Son agrees, palming the thickest part of Johnny’s thigh. “It’s also unsanitary. I’ll have to Clorox my breakfast table.” He kisses Johnny again, licking into his mouth and nipping at the sore spot on his bottom lip. It’ll never heal at this rate. 

Johnny manages to hold back a whine, but only _just_. His hands come up to cup the CFO’s face on instinct but before he makes it there, Mr Son pulls back and fixes him with a serious look. “Do you want to stop?” he asks, voice low. “You’re not— I won’t get you in trouble if you say yes.” A tiny smile plays around the corners of his lips, sweeter than its predecessors. “I’m not that kind of corporate asshole.”

It’s a struggle to not just say _No, no, please, anything, _to encourage the hand on his thigh to climb higher, but the concern in Mr Son’s eyes seems… genuine. It gives Johnny a moment of pause.

_Does _he want to stop?

He uses his fingertips to guide his boss forward into another kiss; light and playful this time, just a few quick pecks. “I don’t want to stop,” he hums, unable to chase away a smile of his own. “I trust you.” It’s a surprise to himself just how much he means it; he knows Mr Son isn’t going to hurt him. 

And if he does, well… Johnny will sue him within an inch of his life.

“I don't want to stop either,” the CFO huffs. Their lips barely touch as he speaks. Johnny resists the urge to lick the ticklish sensation away. “You’re a fucking menace, did you know that?” Now that he has verbal consent, the older man kisses him with a renewed fervor. “So fucking pretty, slinking around in my clothes… watching me cook.” Mr Son’s hands are everywhere: his throat, his hair, his back, pinching his nipples, digging thumbs into his hips, squeezing what he can reach of his ass.

Johnny swallows a snort of laughter. He wasn’t aware that he was doing any _slinking_ but if it led to Mr Son alternating between trying to unbutton his fly and his shirt, he’ll have to try and figure out whatever it was he did that got him here.

One hand wiggles into the back of his slacks and Johnny arches forward on a gasp when two fingers circle his asshole. “Lube,” he manages, panting halfway into Mr Son’s mouth. “Need lube for that. A lot of it.” In response, his boss leaves a kiss on the corner of Johnny’s mouth and pulls away. Johnny immediately wants him back. 

Mr Son mumbles, “Be right back,” but he doesn’t move, eyes glazed over and glued to Johnny’s body where the button up shirt hangs open, revealing his chest (which, if the heat rising from the molten core of Johnny’s belly is anything to go by, is probably just starting to flush a lovely shade of blush pink). Johnny’s barely managed to get a hand on Mr Son’s dick—just some over-the-pants groping—but he’s hanging heavy in his sweats. The sight is literally fucking mouthwatering. Johnny discreetly swallows a mouthful of saliva and wonders if that’s more Pavlovian or Freudian. 

He giggles, leaning back on his hands in full knowledge that it shows off the subtle muscle definition of his stomach with the added bonus of the sunshine making his skin glow. “_Go_.”

While he waits for his boss to return with his supplies, Johnny strips naked and puts his specs safely out of the way on the kitchen island. He hesitates on the shirt for a moment but slips it off after a few seconds of deliberation. Johnny kind of… well, he comes, like, a _lot_ and he isn’t sure he can afford to dry clean jizz stains out of a shirt as nice as this one. (He didn’t miss the bold black label inside the collar; Johnny and Taeyong like to get wine drunk and pretend to online shop for clothes they can’t afford as their best friend bonding time and he knows for a fact that Tom Ford evening shirts _start_ at roughly six hundred dollars.)

When Mr Son comes back, he stops dead in the doorway and just _stares_. Johnny raises his chin to show off the line of his neck and hopes the glare from the window masks the redness in his ears.

“Jesus,” the CFO breathes, sounding like he just got trachea-punched. “You look like fucking Adonis right now.”

Johnny bites his lip. “Tell me you found lube.”

It seems to snap Mr Son out of his mindless worship of Johnny’s body (which, like, Johnny isn’t _complaining _but he really prefers his sexual praise to come paired with physical contact) and he hurries over, barely sparing a second to toss the lube and a couple of condoms onto the table before reconnecting their lips like they’d never stopped kissing. His hands appear on Johnny’s thighs and boost him up onto the table, smoothing down the undersides of his calves to encourage Johnny to wrap his legs around Mr Son’s waist.

“So pretty, Johnny,” he murmurs, wrapping his fingers around Johnny’s dick to give him some much-needed attention. “Gonna sit pretty and perfect on my cock?”

“Mm.” Johnny threads his fingers into his boss’s close-cropped hair, losing himself in kissing him for a moment. He pulls back a fraction, taking off Mr Son’s glasses as he goes and taking a moment to fold them and place them carefully to the side as he replies, “Only if you promise to open me up real good first.”

“Don’t worry about that.” The CFO’s mouth turns up into a smirk against Johnny’s lips. “I’m gonna take good care of you.” 

Fuck, yeah. Johnny’s professional career might be ruined after this but at least his spank bank will be flush. 

Johnny trails his hands down Mr Son’s torso. His fingers move with the curves of his muscles and a thrill runs through him at the thought of all that _power_. He traces the twin lines leading below his waistband in a sharp vee. _Vee marks the spot_, Johnny thinks, halfway giddy. He’s really, really so fucking excited to get dicked down on this fine morning. 

When his hand dips into Mr Son’s sweats, his dick greets Johnny like an old friend. “Happy to see me?” he quips, running his thumb along its length. He immediately feels dumb. Listening to himself try to talk dirty always makes Johnny want to cringe.

“It’s been too long,” Mr Son agrees, using one hand to push his sweats down his hips. His dick springs out, turning rosy as he starts to get harder under Johnny’s attention.

“It’s been, like, seven hours. Eight max.”

“Exactly. Way too long,” his boss reiterates, punctuating the sentiment with a quick kiss. He pauses in pumping Johnny’s dick to shake his joggers off his feet and then comes right back, tilting his pelvis forward like he can’t resist Johnny’s gravitational pull. 

Their knuckles bump as they jack each other off, uncoordinated and lazy to match the way they kiss. Every now and then they match up so their cocks rub brush and the silky-smooth feeling of Mr Son’s dick sliding against his own makes Johnny’s head swim.

It’s nice. (Handjobs are always nice, in Johnny’s opinion, but he realises he’s probably in the minority. Sicheng hates handjobs [“Dicks are ugly as fuck. What’s the point if it’s not in my mouth or my ass?”] and Doyoung insists that handjobs should be left back in high school along with car sex and bad pop rock. Johnny pretends not to notice that his current interests check all three of those boxes.) But it’s not enough.

Johnny wiggles, reluctantly moving his hand from Mr Son’s ass to move his boss’s hand from his thigh back towards his own ass. “Hey,” he mumbles, leaving tiny nips along the bolt of the CFO’s jaw to get his attention. He loops his arm around Mr Son’s neck, holding him close to breathe his next words hot and damp over the antihelix of his ear. “Think it’s about time you put that lube to good use.”

The older man groans, fingers going tight on Johnny’s ass and around his dick in tandem. “Yeah,” he grunts. He lets Johnny go but stays close while he busies himself with the bottle; close enough for Johnny to hold their cocks together in one hand while he maps out the edges of Mr Son’s pectorals with his tongue.

Then he’s leaning back, guided by Mr Son’s lube-free hand, so his lower back curls against the surface of the table. He clings with the arm still hooked around Mr Son’s shoulders to keep his upper body close without exposing his own pathetic core strength. 

Johnny should be used to the sensation of a lubed-up fingertip circling his asshole by now but it still sets off an excited flurry of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. His nerves show themselves in the shallow, shaky breath that escapes him.

It doesn’t escape Mr Son’s notice. “Are you shy?” He huffs out a laugh. “You fucking begged for it last night.”

Johnny presses his lips together to stifle a whine. Embarrassment—like, the sexy kind of embarrassment—floods his face with heat. He’s mostly embarrassed by how ready he is to drop to his knees and beg _again_. “Just want your dick in my ass,” he mutters.

The tip of his boss’s thumb presses into the tight ring of muscle. “We share a common goal, then.” The digit retreats but before Johnny can complain it’s replaced by one of Mr Son’s gorgeous, thick fingers. “Gotta get you loose, first. Gonna get you all wet and sloppy for me. You want that, baby?”

Christ on a _bike_. If Johnny wasn’t twenty-two and subsisting off a primary diet of bare-handed pooh bear scoops of heart healthy Cheerios, he’d go into cardiac arrest. Who fucking knew quiet, composed Mr Son could run his mouth like this?

One finger quickly becomes two (maybe a little _too _quickly considering how sensitive his asshole still feels from last night’s abuse). Once Mr Son gives his fingers a little bit of room to work, he gets his free hand—the palm of which is now also blessedly slick, much to Johnny’s joy (he was starting to worry that his dick would chafe from the dryness)—back around Johnny’s cock and sets a decent counterpoint rhythm between the two to get Johnny back up to speed. Johnny, for his part, does his best to hold on to Mr Son’s neck and not completely sprawl out across the kitchen table.

Just as the double digits in his ass start to move from just comfortable to oh-that’s-quite-nice, Mr Son adds his pointer finger (along with a fresh squeeze of lube, for which Johnny is immeasureably grateful) to the equation and it goes back to being oh-fuck-those-don’t-belong-there. He groans. Johnny has never really liked getting fingered, not the way Taeyong does—Johnny sees it more as an unfortunate but necessary step to getting dicked down—and he is especially not fond of it when he’s still tender from getting his back blown out the night prior.

“_Hurry,_” he bites out, bearing down on Mr Son’s fingers in hopes of speeding up the process. 

The pads of his fingertips press along his insides, presumably looking for a sweet spot. “You want my cock that bad?” Mr Son hums, twisting his palm over the head of Johnny’s dick almost apologetically. Johnny lets his eyelids fall shut so he won’t roll his eyes. _Yes, obviously I want your cock “that bad”_._ You think your fingers would be in my anus if I didn’t want your cock “that bad”?_ “Almost there,” his boss soothes.

Just as he says it, his fingers slip in at a different angle and Johnny’s back arches into an inverted parabola as starbursts fill his field of vision. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “Oh my god, you found it.”

“Yeah?” The CFO presses back into the same spot and Johnny’s fingertips go white where they hold on to his boss’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Oh, my god. Please fuck me.”

Mr Son leans over him, rocking him further back onto the table and bending Johnny’s leg halfway to his chest so he can get close enough to kiss over his jaw, his neck, his chest and belly. “Since you asked so nicely,” he snarks, mouth searing hot over the hollow of Johnny’s throat. His tongue licks a slow stripe in and out of the dip, collecting the sweat just beginning to glisten there. 

Johnny makes peace with the very real likelihood that he might die, right here on his CFO’s breakfast table with aforementioned CFO’s hand buried four inches deep in his butthole. His prostate sings as Mr Son keeps massaging it, successfully distracting him from the weird—not unpleasant, just weird, it’s never _not _weird—sensation of his asshole being stretched open.

“Mr Son—”

The hand around his cock strokes up sweetly, milking a tiny bead of precum out of his slit. “You can call me Hyunwoo, sweetie.” The man in question’s tongue laps at Johnny’s ear, pulling the soft part of the lobe between his lips so he can tug at it with his teeth.

_Fuck_. His dick jerks in Mr Son’s—_Hyunwoo’s_—hand. “Hyunwoo,” Johnny breathes. The name hitches in his throat on a twist of the fingers in his ass.

“Yeah.” His boss leans over him further to suck kisses into his neck, bearing Johnny down against the table so he’s bent nearly in half with his knees accordioned between their chests. The muscles at the base of his spine protest loudly, sore from the previous night’s abuse.

“I don’t—” Johnny winces. “My back still kinda… hurts. From last night.”

“Oh.” Hyunwoo’s face drapes with a smug grin, just as tiny as his other smiles but with an added flavour of arrogance that’s just a little bit aggravating in the sexy way. He straightens up, fingers slipping out of Johnny’s asshole. Johnny full-body shivers at the sensation. Hyunwoo generously withholds any remarks he may have about the whimper that ekes past Johnny’s lips. The twitch of his lips as he gently helps Johnny unfold and relax his legs communicates his thoughts loud and clear regardless.

The older man takes a moment to wipe his fingers off (he does so on his own hip instead of Johnny’s, which Johnny thinks is considerate) and hands the condom to Johnny. “Lube fingers,” he explains. “Can you open it for me?”

Johnny does so with a smile, oddly charmed, and can’t help himself from tugging Hyunwoo back down into a kiss as he rolls the rubber onto his boss’s dick. If it takes a little more prolonged touching than absolutely necessary for condom application, Hyunwoo can leave a note about it in his efficiency review at the end of the quarter.

He gets so wrapped up in the kissing (seems to keep happening; he’s never hooked up with an ONS as fixated on kissing as Hyunwoo seems to be. Of course, there’s the possibility that maybe, possibly Johnny is perhaps just a little bit fixated on his CFO’s lips, too) that he barely registers Hyunwoo folding his legs back again and doesn’t even clock the bottle of lube nearing his ass until the nozzle touches his rim and cool gel gushes into him.

Johnny’s jaw drops open and his head lolls back so fast it makes a loud, hollow _thunk _against the table. “Fuck,” he gasps. “That’s fucking _cold_—_shit_.”

“You seemed like you liked it messy last night,” Hyunwoo comments, taking the bottle away and using his fingers to push as much of the excess lube as he can catch back into Johnny’s asshole. He watches Johnny’s expression from beneath heavy eyelids, not even glancing down to where his hands work. 

Damn. Johnny thought he was, like, even a little bit better at downplaying his sluttier tendencies during first-time encounters. Apparently Champagne John is even _less_ inhibited than previously thought.

“Yeah,” he stammers. A drop of lube makes a break for it down his ass crack. He squirms at the sensation until Hyunwoo catches it and plunges his fingers back into him, crooking the knuckles so they _just _miss that good spot. He squeezes his eyes shut, tipping his head back against the table. It takes a real effort to swallow and steady his breathing. “Please,” he sighs (_sighs_, not _whines_—he has fucking plausible deniability, you can’t fucking prove that he whined). “Please fuck me, Hyunwoo.”

His boss smiles at that—smug motherfucker—and pulls his fingers out of Johnny’s (now mortifyingly and gut-meltingly wet) asshole again. “Come here, baby,” he hums, deep in his chest. He gathers Johnny into his arms so their bodies press together chest-to-pelvis and hooks his elbows under Johnny’s knees so his hands cradle Johnny’s back almost sweetly. 

Okay, yeah. Johnny can work with this, he can do cowspoon or whatever weird term it is Yuta uses when he means riding someone. His legs are still kind of jello-y and he’s not sure about his stamina—Johnny would never admit it out loud but he exhibits some… princess-like tendencies during morning sex (_especially_ morning-after sex, but, like, who _isn’t _lazy during morning-after sex?)—but it’s better than his spine being folded in half like a hotel towel and he certainly isn’t leaving without getting that dick, so—

Johnny’s mentally preparing himself for a charlie horse when Hyunwoo _lifts _him off the table, takes a few steps back, and—oh, sweet Jesus—holds him _just so _where the head of his cock brushes against Johnny’s asshole. He feels his rim literally _twitch_ and he digs his nails into the skin over Hyunwoo’s shoulder blades at the feeling of the muscle trying to catch at Hyunwoo’s dick. 

An incredibly unmanly noise, high-pitched and thin, escapes Johnny’s throat. The sound cuts short when Hyunwoo’s palms slip down to Johnny’s ass and squeeze playfully, producing the double effect of spreading his cheeks and pulling gently at the edges of his hole so the head of his dick _almost _slips inside. Johnny isn’t sure how purposeful the movement is, but he whines about it anyways (because—seriously, Jesus fucking Christ of Nazareth—like, either this dude has the patience of a fucking saint or Johnny just, like, _way _underestimated how much of a slutty mess he’s become. Plus, he’s got lube leaking out of his ass and he just _really _would love to speed this process along), arching his spine like a goddamn porn star chick in an attempt to rock his ass back and get Hyunwoo where Johnny so _fucking _desperately wants him. 

Hyunwoo chuckles, biting at Johnny’s chin and softening it with a kiss. “Hook your legs behind my back,” he instructs. 

Johnny obeys, clinging to Hyunwoo’s shoulders when the other man adjusts his hold so one of his hands can guide his dick to Johnny’s asshole while the fingers of the other dig into the meat of Johnny’s thigh. They both groan when he finally—_finally_—pushes the head of his cock past Johnny’s rim. His hand goes back to its place on Johnny’s ass and holds on for dear life as Johnny unwinds his ankles. Hyunwoo guides him downwards with both hands, filling Johnny’s ass in one slow, smooth motion. He’s loose from the night before but the base of his spine still protests with a halfhearted twinge when Hyunwoo slides home.

Johnny’s head spins. Hyunwoo is holding him up. He’s a fully grown man, a full one hundred and eighty five centimeters, and Hyunwoo cradles him in the hammock of his hands like it’s nothing.

It’s fucking _hot_. Fuck.

They stand there for a moment—well, _Hyunwoo _stands for _both _of them—and Hyunwoo’s head lolls forward, forehead resting against the hollow of Johnny’s throat as he pauses to take a few measured breaths. It’s all Johnny can do to cling to him.

His boss swallows, loud enough for Johnny to hear over the blood rushing in his ears _and_ his own breathing, which has already escalated to an embarrassing volume. “Are you, um… can I…?” Hyunwoo trails off on a shaky exhale of hot, wet breath that gusts down the damp skin of Johnny’s chest. It kinda makes his nipples tingle. 

“Oh my god.” The words can’t seem to come out of his mouth fast enough. He even chokes on his own spit a little bit trying to push them past his vocal chords. Johnny adjusts his grip around his boss’s shoulders and braces his back, waiting to be slammed against the nearest wall and (hopefully) drilled within an inch of his life. “Yes, you can, I’m ready, fuck… Move, _move._”

The affirmative barely passes his lips before Hyunwoo’s wrists flex, lifting Johnny’s hips until just the head of his cock is still inside his ass, and then relax to let gravity bring him back down to his base. And then he does it again, and again, and again, without any apparent intention of stopping any time soon. 

None of Johnny’s partners—short-term, long-term, one-off, whatever—have ever done anything like this for him before. Johnny’s a big dude (well, actually, he’s _not _really that big. He just keeps small company) and most people expect him to do most of the heavy lifting in their sex lives in one way or another: whether that be topping or manhandling or being the more dominant presence. It’s fucking _hot _to be on the other end, to be taken care of like one of the tiny, pretty people in porn clips. He feels tiny. He feels like Hyunwoo could do anything he wanted to him. It’s a fucking novelty.

Johnny wonders if this is why he never wins competitions or raffles or games of rock-paper-scissors; all of the luck in his life thus far was being stockpiled in order to be traded in at this moment for the best dicking of his young life.

“Like this?” Johnny breathes in disbelief. Without consciously deciding to, he’s begun to use his hold on Hyunwoo’s shoulders to move himself up and down in time with the hands on his ass. “I’m taller than you, how— oh my god, how are you real? You’re just fucking— full of surprises, aren’t you?” he babbles, gasping each time Hyunwoo lets him drop to Hyunwoo’s hips. If he arches his back like that— fuck, _yeah_, that’s the money spot. The drag of his boss’s dick inside of Johnny is punctuated on each stroke by a direct hit to his prostate. 

(In his head—and Johnny will never, _never _admit this out loud, will likely carry this thought to his grave just because of the sheer nerdiness of it—Gold Five’s voice floats to the top, urging him to _Stay on target… Stay on target…_)

His boss grunts. His biceps ripple as he bounces Johnny on his cock. Sweat rolls in beads from his hairline all the way down to his jaw. Johnny cranes his neck down to lick at the trails they leave on his skin. “My talents are legion,” the CFO replies at length, huffing for breath. 

All Johnny can say to that is, “_Fuck,_” before Hyunwoo starts to roll up onto the balls of his feet to meet each drop of Johnny’s ass with an upward thrust of his hips, causing Johnny to lose control of his speech faculties completely.

_I’ll leave my cameras to Jeno and Jaemin, one for each of them. Ten can have all the passwords to my streaming services for as long as my checking account sustains the subscriptions. Xiaojun can have my records. Donghyuck gets my Blu-Rays, except for my anime collection, that goes to Yuta… _ Johnny starts to mentally put his affairs in order, certain that the likelihood of him surviving the orgasm waiting for him at the end of this encounter are slim to none.

The ends of Johnny’s fingertips start to tingle. He becomes vaguely aware of how his head lolls back and forth between his shoulders. It’s gone fuzzy in that soupy, warm, quicksand-y way that means he’s about to come his fucking brains out.

He doesn’t realise he’s been drooling until the flat of his boss’s tongue drags up Johnny’s chin to the corner of his mouth. “Fucking gorgeous,” Hyunwoo says, voice low and gravelly. His tongue fucks into Johnny’s mouth and even though saliva is… saliva and therefore all pretty much the same, Johnny _swears_ he can taste where his own drool has collected on Hyunwoo’s tongue.

_Gross_, he thinks. _Fucking hot._

“M- Hyunwoo,” he slurs, tongue thick and clumsy. It’s a struggle to remember which language he should speak in.

Every grind of Hyunwoo’s cock against his prostate makes Johnny’s central nervous system light up all multi-colored and electric like a Fourth of July sparkler. His head goes limp, falling into the crook of Hyunwoo’s neck, and he moans, high-pitched and totally fucking _wanton _in his boss’s ear. “_Fuck_. Fuck. _Woo_. M’gon’ come.” He just needs a _little _bit more, just—

Right as Johnny’s on the edge of seeing stars, Hyunwoo stills them both, holding Johnny close but not moving. 

“_Woo_,” Johnny pleads. (Later, it will occur to him to be embarrassed about all these _sounds _he’s making—whining, moaning, crying like a bitch in heat—but right now he’s too full of rich, talented, strong, capable _dick_ to have any room for negativity.)

Hyunwoo hums, pets one hand over the curve of Johnny’s ass. The sound vibrates between their bodies where sweat glues their chests together, buzzing all the way into Johnny’s sternum. (God, Hyunwoo has such a great chest. Johnny could motorboat those titties.) “I know, baby boy,” he murmurs, making more soothing noises. “Just one second.”

The combination of being called _baby boy_ in his boss’s low voice and the horny delirium currently fogging over his brain makes Johnny seriously consider taking his daddy kink for a trial run for a few wild seconds (like, what’s the worst that could happen? He calls his boss Daddy and has to live the rest of his corporate professional life being haunted by the knowledge that the man who holds the future of his career in the palm of his hand like a tiny bird—much the same as he now holds _Johnny _in his hands, in fact—could easily kinkshame him in front of the entire company at any given moment? Johnny might be willing to risk it all to get Hyunwoo moving again) but fortunately(?) just as the word takes shape on his lips, Johnny’s back presses gently against the blessedly cool, solid surface of the window. He wraps his legs around Hyunwoo and leans most of his weight on it, letting the sensation of the glass on his overheated skin ground him. His arms are weirdly noodly even though he hasn’t been doing most of the heavy lifting. 

A kiss lands on each of his eyelids. “You okay, baby?” Hyunwoo murmurs. He’s breathing hard, air puffing in short bursts across Johnny’s face. Their noses bump as the older man traces his lips down Johnny’s cheek. 

Johnny forces his eyes open. It feels like coming back to earth from outer space. Hyunwoo looks fucking _wrecked_, hair spiky with sweat and face and chest bright pink from exertion. His lips are swollen and red and his eyes are wide and fucking brown like big, sweet, teddy bear eyes. Johnny wants to come so fucking badly. 

He wriggles, trying to fuck himself on the cock still buried in his ass, and whimpers, too, just for good measure. “I’m really close,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes a little in the way that always gets him railed. “Don’t stop.”

Hyunwoo brings a hand up to Johnny’s face. He’s not sure why he does it—maybe he’s used to boning girls and tucking long hair out of the way—but it gets Johnny’s attention anyways when his boss strokes his cheekbone with the back of one thumb. “You’re good?” he double-checks. 

_Aw. Sweet_. “I’d be better if you kept lighting up my prostate like a fucking Christmas tree,” Johnny pants, detaching one of the claws he has embedded into Hyunwoo’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck and yank him into a kiss. 

A growling sound starts in the back of his boss’s throat and revs up slightly as Hyunwoo leans forward, pinning Johnny against the wall and—fuck—unstoppable force (Hyunwoo’s 454-horsepower cock) meets immovable object (the kitchen window) and Johnny’s stuck in between (_stuck between a cock and a hard place_, his mind supplies, and even through the haze he smiles a little at his own joke and hopes he won’t forget to tell it to Ten later). 

The leverage that the wall lends not only allows Hyunwoo to piston in and out of Johnny faster, harder, _and _with greater accuracy, but also frees up one of his hands to reach between them and touch Johnny’s cock, which has thus far only had the friction of being trapped between their stomachs (not that that’s a terrible place to be; Hyunwoo’s washboard abs make a delightfully textured surface to rut against and also look fucking delicious smeared with his pre-cum, like eight beautifully iced cinnamon buns). _Physics, man, _Johnny marvels, separating their mouths with an obscenely wet _pop_ so he can look down and watch the way his head looks—bright red and leaking like a faucet—as it fucks in and out of the tight circle of Hyunwoo’s fist. _Physics is fucking awesome_. 

All good things must come (haha) to an end, and that which goes up must also come (haha) down, including erections, but Johnny is still a little disappointed when Hyunwoo’s hips start to stutter because it means he won’t get to live out his fantasy of bouncing on his boss’s cock until the sun implodes and swallows the earth.

Johnny swallows and scratches the fingers of one hand through Hyunwoo’s scalp. “You gonna come in me?” he asks, sugar sweet. He clenches around his boss’s dick as best he can and Hyunwoo groans, valiantly trying to keep up his brutal pace. One tug at the hair on the back of Hyunwoo’s head is enough to tip his head back.

Their eyes meet. Johnny widens his eyes. “You can,” he pants, words stuttering on each pump of Hyunwoo’s hips. “If you want. Or on my face, or my back—”

“_Fuck_,” Hyunwoo grunts, eyes fluttering shut. “Johnny.”

Johnny’s heart races at the sound of his own name. He suddenly becomes aware of how _filthy_ they sound; wet and ridiculous and almost _cartoonish_. The sound of Hyunwoo fucking in and out of his ass is straight up indecent. He bites his lip, vision swimming with spots. His hand wraps around Hyunwoo’s on his cock, pushes his fingers down out of the way so he can jerk himself off fast and hard the way he needs in order to chase the telltale tightness in his balls.

“Baby,” he babbles, curling inwards to watch the blur of his fingers. “Call me baby again.”

Hyunwoo rumbles it right in his ear, quiet and low. “Baby boy,” he murmurs. He doesn’t even finish saying “Come for me,” before Johnny loses it on a high whine, painting both of their bellies and chests in ropes. He comes and he comes and he comes; he comes so much that it’s fucking embarrassing (it always is; the one [1] time they slept together Doyoung made sure to inform Johnny that he ‘comes like a hentai character’). Even when Hyunwoo pulls out and carries Johnny over to the couch, his cock still spits out little blurts of nearly-transparent cum.

The world spins around him as he’s gently laid out over the cushions but he keeps it centered around Hyunwoo, around the sight of him with his knees on either side of Johnny’s chest, on the elastic snap of the condom as he strips it off and starts jacking off in earnest. Johnny sticks his tongue out but it’s too far, so he slumps back and contents himself with watching. It’s kind of a glorious sight, even if Hyunwoo looks a little dumb from the under-chin angle.

Finally, his boss comes with an almost inaudible grunt. Johnny closes his eyes just in time to feel a hot stripe of it fall across his eyelashes; another across his cheek; another over the bridge of his nose between his eyes. Johnny distantly wonders if Hyunwoo is purposefully trying to blind him or if he just has bad aim.

Still in the dark, Johnny opens his mouth again, tongue out, hoping Hyunwoo will get the message, and he does: the head of his dick touches his tongue and even though Hyunwoo’s pretty much done (because he comes an average amount like a normal, non-animated human being—no, Johnny isn’t bitter) he still licks up enough jizz to satisfy his psychosexual lizard brain. When he’s done, he leaves a sweet kiss on the tip. 

There’s a long pause where the air is filled with both of their labored breathing; the cushion near Johnny’s face dips as Hyunwoo braces himself while he recovers. Then, Hyunwoo’s hands touch Johnny’s face carefully, wiping away the streaks of cum near his eyes until Johnny feels it’s safe enough to blink them open. He smiles up at the older man. He knows he looks dopey as fuck. He doesn’t really care.

“I’ll get a washcloth.” The CFO kisses his cupid’s bow and moves out of sight. Johnny lets his eyes close once more, prepared to set adrift in the Sea of Post-Coitus now that he’s slept with his boss again.

_I slept with my boss._ _Again_.

The thought is not as alarming the second time around.

A cool cloth touches his skin, first cleaning his face, and then the spunk starting to dry on his stomach, and finally wiping away the excess lube between his legs and asscheeks (much like swallowing, what once was sexy becomes mostly just kind of gross after the fact). 

Johnny’s just starting to feel his fingertips again. He uses this newly returning motor function to tug Hyunwoo down on his level and kiss him thoroughly (or, as thoroughly as he can considering he’s pretty sure Hyunwoo’s dick liquefied his entire nervous system).

“Thank you,” Johnny mumbles, pulling his mouth into a smile that feels like it’s probably super goofy-looking. He combs his fingers through Hyunwoo’s hair. It’s shorter than Johnny’s but thick and black and soft. Johnny makes a mental note to sneak a peek at his conditioner when he goes to the bathroom. “W’s fun.”

Hyunwoo kisses him back. “Was,” he agrees, looking down at Johnny with his eyelids at half mast. Johnny’s struck by his pretty eyelashes. 

For a moment they just sit there, watching one another; Hyunwoo watches Johnny while Johnny watches his hand run through Hyunwoo’s hair. As soon as Johnny lets his eyes fall shut again (fuck you, he is _not _a pillow princess), Hyunwoo gently detaches himself from Johnny’s hands and moves away. Johnny listens to him putter around the communal space; probably throwing the cloth in the sink, putting on his sweats, finding his glasses. Comforting sounds. Domestic sounds. It’s weird to listen to the domestic sounds of a one night stand. It makes Johnny’s heart ache in a way that isn’t totally bad but isn’t good, either.

“You want anything?” Hyunwoo’s voice stays low, mindful of his afterglow. “Water, or coffee? Something to eat?”

Johnny hums, still spread-eagle on the couch. _Coffee_. The chemical receptors in his brain all moan simultaneously at the prospect. “Can you make me a cappuccino?” he mumbles, already floating in the pleasant, cottony middle ground between asleep and awake. 

A beat of silence, and then: 

“…I don’t know how to use the espresso machine.”

Johnny takes a good, long moment to appreciate the irony before he opens his eyes, struggling into an upright position. He’ll be fetching Mr Son’s coffee for the next four months anyways. Might as well get a head start.

**Author's Note:**

> i refuse to apologise for the gratuitous star wars jokes
> 
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/teddykun)  
[ twitter](https://twitter.com/kittyong)


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